


Unmistakable Sound

by Scarecrowqueen



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Relationship, Pining, Sexual Fantasy, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:45:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarecrowqueen/pseuds/Scarecrowqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here he is himself; he can let down all walls, let the borders be breached.  Here he can relax, here he can touch, here he can <i>feel.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Unmistakable Sound

**Author's Note:**

> So chapter 5 of Hope and Ruin is giving me a bit of trouble, sorry about the delay. Instead, for your patience, have some totally unrelated and standalone porn. :)
> 
> Recommended listening: [Thinking of You - A Perfect Circle](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oJWM52RS7Cg)

The hour is late, back in Burgess. The hour may be anything from late to early here, in the back of beyond Antarctica, where Jack has made his bed. Here, cradled in the cold to end all cold, in a cavern of hollowed snow, where neither sunlight nor moonlight can reach, here Jack lies. Here he has come, laid himself down; stripped bare to the elements in the empty dark, clothes and staff set aside in favour of the freedom of exposed flesh. Here he is alone, perfectly, completely, surpassing the reach of even the most prying of eyes.

Here he is himself; he can let down all walls, let the borders be breached. Here he can relax, here he can touch, here he can _feel._

Jack traces the lines of his eyebrows with gentle fingertips, the bridge of his nose, the curl of his lips. The first two finger of his left hand slip inside to stroke along his tongue, to taste the whorls of his fingerprints, and drag against even white teeth as they slip free. The damp fingers find his nipples, one and the other, pinching, rubbing, bring both to tiny, hard points, tendrils of shuddery sensations creeping through his stomach into his groin with every twist and tug. Jack lets his head tip back, onto the bed of soft snow he’s conjured just for this; eyes squeezed shut tightly against the nothingness around him. 

In his mind, he is not here. In his mind, the heat of the Warren unfurls around him, the gentle emerald embrace of the grass beneath the expansive cerulean of the wide, wide sky. Here, the wind tantalizes, glides against his skin, like the touch of Bunny’s fur slides against his skin, heavy and warm and weighty with the promise of things to come.

Jack’s right hand makes its way down, across his belly, twitching with need. He palms the sharp angles of his hips, but skirts the secret, shameful places he long desires to touch. His questing hand slips lower, running up and down slender, hairless thighs, outside and in, testing, teasing. Jack is smooth, mostly hairless save for the barest afterthought at his armpits and groin. Jack was young, had died young, and would forever be young, frozen in the paradox between youthful innocence and adult lusts. Sometimes, he contents himself with childish wishes; fancies himself and Bunny to court carefully, slowly, with sweet nuzzling kisses and coy hand-holding. Tonight, he courts fire instead, passion and desire and caution to the wind. 

Behind his eyelids, Bunny crawls above him, bearing him down into the evergreen beneath them, urging Jack’s thighs wider to accommodate his own slim hips, Jack rushes to oblige, letting his lover coax him open with nary a word, three wide fingers parting his lips to hide themselves inside. The heat and scent of fur make Jack dizzy, punch-drunk and contact-high, making animal noises into the flesh and bone that fills his mouth, his heartbeat a relentless throb in the back of his ears.

In the dark, Jack’s thighs fall open, his fingers returning to his lips, wetting two, then three, suckling and licking with abandon, letting the suggestive sounds fill the small space like poetry. Like this, Jack’s little noises are muffled, the low moans and hitches in breathe that fall from plump lips like a cadence silenced partly by the digits he laps at with an eager tongue. Soon though, it is enough, and those fingers wander down, tracing a damp trail along his sternum and navel, down past his cock, flushed and ready, down to the most erotic part of himself.

In his fantasy, Bunny works him open steadily, patiently, ignored all of Jacks pleading and begging, his wanton bucking and writhing. Bunny is stalwart, dedicated, working Jack open until he sobs, aching for leverage that the Pooka will not allow, fighting for a release his lover will not grant. When his lover finally relents, finally cradles him into whipcord-strong arms and crawls up into the safety of Jack’s body, Jack nearly dies with the joy of it. Moving in ancient rhythm, rolling into Jack like waves into the shore, Bunny unknots him and ties him back up in new patterns that only he could know; only he could ever hope to untangle. Jack is delirious, unfettered and unfolded and lost and found and desperate, so very desperate. When he comes, it’s less an orgasm and more coming unmade, felling into a thousand little pieces that Bunny will cradle with his careful, competent hands, keeping them safe to reassemble into a brand new image, a tessellation of _JackandBunny,_ they way they are meant to be. 

Jack’s fingers slide home one at a time, his own tight, cool clench against his wandering digits more a promise than any true satisfaction. He shudders, reaches further, burrows deeper, but nothing is ever quite enough, nothing assuages the emptiness, nothing fills and spills over the way it is meant to. He works himself regardless, right hand stripping his small, youthful cock, plucking at the foreskin to stroke him thumb along the sensitive head beneath, his own earnest attentions a mockery of the loving touches he sees in his mind’s eye like a zoetrope. It’s so good but never enough, because his hands are not soft-furred and warm and his fingers cannot split him open the way a proper cock could. Jack pines and strokes and aches; he hovers forever on the knife-edge between almost and ecstasy, dying to tip over but fearing the fall, knowing that when he lands there will be no one to catch him.

In the dream, Bunny’s embrace is a beloved shackle, tying him to earth and warm, to silence and stillness, his antithesis and everything he is meant to hate, but loves with all his soul.

Jack’s blue eyes open into the nothing, the dream fading. In reality, Jack has come alone, in the dark of a hidden space, the evidence of his passion sticky against pale skin. Jack is cold and wild and vibrant and free; a creature of ice and atmosphere, and never before has he so wished to be tamed.

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted to my Dreamwidth and Fanfiction.net


End file.
